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THE SEA BUY TO HIS BARQUE.

The breeze is fair, the anchor's weighed,

And, as recedes the land,

Headland and cliff, in distance dim,

Like giant shadows stand.
The eagle from his eyry springs
Amazed, in doubt, to see

His matchless pinions first surpassed
In strength and speed by thee.

When from their chambers in the skies
The vivid lightnings flash,

And, borne upon the whirlwind's wrath,
The waves in fury dash;

With fearless steps I tread thy deck,
Nor heed the angry storm,
As o'er the booming surges still

Thou proudly rear'st thy form.

We go, my barque, where incense floats
Upon the perfumed air,

And from the cushioned mosque is heard
The moslem voice of prayer:

'To Allah!' still from turbaned hosts

Resounds the solemn cry

"To Allah!' wafted on the breeze,

The echoing hills reply.

Fair Venice too, with mirrored bay,
Will meet my anxious gaze-
Her domes and temples glittering yet
Beneath the noontide blaze:

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THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE.

Though fall'n her pride, her glory fled,

Their shadows still appear,

And fancy wakes them in the song
Of the merry gondolier.

When ample treasure toil repays,
Again our course we'll steer
To where Columbia's giant peaks
Their hoary crests uprear:
Again will rise in dreamy blue
My native landscape, fair,

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While well known voices float along
Upon the buoyant air.

My mother then this form will clasp
In many a fond caress;

My aged sire with smiles and tears

His roving sea boy bless;

The loved one bound with fawn-like tread

And blush my gaze to meet,

While I into her willing ear

The oft pledged vow repeat.

And then, my barque, all perils past,
No more we'll court the gale,
But to the gentle south wind's breath
Unfurl thy snow-white sail;
And, bound in pleasure's joyous chase,
We'll rove the summer sea,

Thy faithful bosom bearing still

My sylph-like maid and me.

THE YOUNG.

211

THE YOUNG.

BY W. G. CLARK.

WHEN into dust, like dewy flowers departed,
From our dim paths the bright and lovely fade;
The fair in form-the pure-the gentle hearted,
Whose looks within the breast a Sabbath made;
How like a whisper on the inconstant wind,
The memory of their voices stirs the mind!

We hear the sigh, the song, the fitful laughter
That from their lips, in balm, were wont to flow,
When hope's beguiling wings they hurried after,
And drank her siren music long ago;

While joy's bright harp to sweetest lays was strung And poured rich numbers for the loved and young!

When the clear stars are burning high in heaven,— When the low night-winds kiss the autumnal tree, And thoughts are deepening in the hush of even, How soft those voices on the heart will be! They breathe of raptures which have bloomed and died,

Of sorrows, by remembrance sanctified.

Yet, when the loved have from our pathway vanished,

What potent magic can their smiles restore?

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TO A LADY FOR A NOSEGAY.

Like some gay sun-burst, by the tempest banished,

They passed in darkness-they will come no more. Unlike the day-beams, when the storm hath fled, No light renewed breaks on their lowly bed!

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TO A LADY FOR A NOSEGAY.

BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.

WHO does not love a flower?

Its hues are taken from the light
Which summer's suns fling pure and bright
In scattered and prismatic hues,
That smile and shine in dropping dews;
Its fragrance from the sweetest air,—
Its form from all that's light and fair—
Who does not love a flower?

A lesson to the giver.

Not in the streets to bloom and shine, Not in the rout of noise and wine,

Not trampled by the rushing crowd, Not in paved streets and cities proudFrom danger safe from blighting free, Pure, simple, artless, let it be,

An emblem of the giver.

I SEE THEE STILL.

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I SEE THEE STILL.

BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.

I rocked her in the cradle,

And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest:
What fireside circle hath not felt the charm
Of that sweet tie? The youngest ne'er grow old.
The fond endearments of our earlier days
We keep alive in them, and when they die,
Our youthful joys we bury with them.'

I see thee still:

Remembrance, faithful to her trust,
Calls thee in beauty from the dust;
Thou comest in the morning light,
Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night;
In dreams I meet thee as of old;

Then thy soft armis my neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is in my ear;

In every scene to memory dear,
I see thee still.

I see thee still,

In every hallowed token round;
This little ring thy finger bound,
This lock of hair thy forehead shaded,
This silken chain by thee was braided,
These flowers, all withered, now, like thee,
Sweet SISTER. thou didst cull for me;

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